大塩中斎 1Chusai Oshio, Part 1

It is the way of the world that as the eras shift, the earth comes to be blanketed by those who know nothing of history. To contemplate the future, insight filtered through the lens of history is indispensable; indeed, one might say that for those who do not know history, there is no future. Yet, history must never be reduced to mere archives. History must not be a mere interpretation of what was signified. For history is the visceral vestige of the raw lives of our predecessors. For instance, while Japan may appear peaceful today, supporting a population of over one hundred million, one need only look back to see that there were times when the streets were strewn with corpses.

Given the current world system—which offers the illusion of superficial progress while countless internal systems undergo liquefaction—no one in a developed nation would imagine that such hellish scenes could ever again unfold upon their streets. However, history teaches us that eras appearing tranquil and safe never endure for long. Most importantly, it teaches that the corruption of the human heart inevitably invites judgment from the Heavens. We are already witnessing and experiencing scenes of nature launching its counter-offensive against humanity on a daily basis, yet this is merely the prologue.

I was born and raised in Osaka, which has now become one of Japan’s great metropolises. Walking its streets today, no one would believe that this very ground was once scattered with massive numbers of the dead, or that it was the site of an event that became a driving force for great historical change. In fact, the number of people who even know this history is dwindling. Thus, the theme I propose here is the inquiry into what constitutes a "living human."

I raise this because, as I have personally felt, encountering a "living human" in the modern age has become an extremely rare experience. This is a truly strange phenomenon. It is said that the global population has exceeded eight billion—perhaps even more if uncounted multitudes are included—and is rushing furiously toward the ten-billion mark. Ordinarily, one would assume that as the population increases, the number of living humans would increase proportionally. The fact, however, is the exact opposite: the more the numbers swell, the more the count of living humans decreases in inverse proportion. The problem of the modern era, regarding population or anything else, is that while quantity increases impressively, quality shows no sign of improvement. Or rather, while the correct modern conduct would be to elevate both quality and quantity, we remain trapped in a stagnation where we invariably lean toward one, unable to escape this imbalance.

A "living human" does not refer to survival in the sense of a beating heart or repeated respiration. Modern man is obsessed with extending his lifespan, yet life extension without true life is the height of folly. As I observe the daily realities of Japan’s super-aging society, I am compelled to ask myself fiercely: What is this living human? I ask this because the figures I see before me increasingly represent the possibility of our future—or rather, a far more tragic future.

To truly "live." It refers to a state in which one embodies the life force inherent in a human being without reserve, sharpening those unspeakable forces that boil like magma at the bottom of one’s gut. Such individuals stake their very lives on their daily discipline. This discipline is often invisible to others, for it can be described as the "discipline of the heart." The mind and body are not separate; they are indivisible.

And there comes a moment when that sharpened, magma-like life force, triggered by a certain event, erupts with accumulated energy, possessing intense endurance and explosive power, becoming the engine that confronts life itself. To witness such a moment is to stand at the "epicenter of life" that we have lost. Regaining the act of living itself may seem a mysterious theme to modern people, but it is self-evident that the definition of what they believe to be "living" is no longer the true form of life. In other words, the question is how far one can interrogate oneself as to whether one is truly alive.

However, when I survey the modern landscape, I cannot help but shudder at its utter heterogeneity. Speaking from personal experience, for those who know the daily life, the faces of people, and the aspect of the streets before the advent of the iPhone—or before the colossal neural network of the Internet blanketed the world—the modern form appears grotesque, like a husk stripped of vitality and spirit. In Japan, I recall the iPhone was released in early 2008; I was on the verge of graduating high school, just as my classmates were heading to university. Social media did not yet exist, or at least was not general, so our generation passed the age of eighteen just before these modern problems manifested.

I still remember how, from that point on, the faces of those around me changed rapidly. While the reason remains not entirely clear, I cannot shake the feeling that the faces of human beings altered distinctively following the rise of the iPhone and social media. And that which was once called human transformed, before we knew it, into something other than human—becoming a machine, a device, a component of a system. Furthermore, they are no longer human in the former sense, but exist merely as a domesticated accumulation of biological life. I cannot help but feel an intense sense of violation and heterogeneity in this current state (the real).

From this desolate horizon, crying out "how a human ought to be," lining up flowery words and platitudes, will merely echo into the void. This is because the very definition and concept of the "human" being objectified has lost the weight of former life and is merely floating. In a modern era where a sanitized, bleached "human-like thing" must be signified and affirmed as the new human before anything can be said, the expression of our life has lost its place. Yet, precisely because of this, the present has opened a space for the emergence of a minority filled with strong conviction and the resolve to live. It is by knowing history that we can realize that this situation is, in fact, repeating itself.

Currently, the world is overflowing with people who are nervously irritable or who scatter mere dissatisfaction and complaints, stubbornly justifying this as "human emotion." However, such spasmodic and reactive emotions (reflexes) that sweep the world are far removed from true life force. In such a state, raising essential questions—what is a human, what does it mean for a human to be human, how should one live—ends as meaningless, futile labor. We are standing on the horizon of the ruins of a "world where humans once existed."

Nevertheless, it is also a fact that a powerful expression of life force—born of discomfort with this figure, unable to endure it, and seeking to question once again what a human is—is beginning to appear here and there, crossing borders. Since it is extremely difficult to find "living humans" among those currently alive, we must seek that source in the water vein of history and learn from it. In doing so, we will know: Is it not the same in every era? To gaze into that abyss, the story I wish to take up here is that of a certain figure born and raised in my own hometown. This is not to present a mere historical record, but to press upon the heart of that person in an urgent manner, to ponder the existence of a living human.

That man is Oshio Chusai.

Today he is generally referred to as Oshio Heihachiro, but until before the war, he was known by the name Oshio Chusai. Oshio Chusai (1793-1837) was born in Osaka in the late Edo period, into the house of an official serving the town magistrate. However, having lost both parents early, he was forced to succeed to the family business while still young, compelled to serve as a "Yoriki"—a role in what we would call today the bureaucratic police apparatus, adjudicating criminals. Yet, he was not of a character that could belong to an organization from childhood and “self-domesticate" himself into the system; he was a man of passion. He was short-tempered and quick to fight, and it is said that his grandmother, unable to handle his roughness, would take the young Chusai to the shrine every day to pray to the gods that his temper might be cured.

But as anyone knows, a child with a rough temper can have their character completely transformed if an excellent master appears to teach them to direct that energy in the right direction. In Chusai's case, it was an encounter with a book. One day, an antique dealer (such peddlers roamed Osaka in those days) came to sell old books to his grandmother, his foster parent. Among them was The Old Text Great Learning (Kohon Daigaku, 古本大学) and several others; his grandmother, an avid reader, purchased them immediately.

To explain briefly, The Old Text Great Learning refers to a distinction arising from a movement in Song Dynasty China called Neo-Confucianism. The Great Learning (Daigaku), originally a chapter of the Book of Rites, came to be treasured and became one of the most important Confucian scriptures. However, a fierce controversy arose claiming that the version used by Neo-Confucians was merely the arbitrary decoration and interpretation of later scholars (the Song scholars), and that the truth lay in The Great Learning as it existed before Neo-Confucianism. Thus, the designations split, and the custom arose of calling the original the "Old Text" (古本) to distinguish it. One need not overthink it here; simply understand it as the teachings prior to Neo-Confucianism.

The young Chusai, chancing upon this Old Text Great Learning that his grandmother had bought, began to beg her to teach it to him, though who knows what he was thinking. Japanese intellectuals of the time had already mastered the method of applying "reading marks" (punctuation and inflection marks) to original Chinese texts to read them in Japanese; it was a matter of course for any intellectual to be able to read classical Chinese. His grandmother, being devoted to learning, possessed this skill, and so she taught Chusai how to punctuate and read the Chinese text himself. Then, strangely enough, his rough character began to settle, and in no time, he immersed himself in reading, creating the soil for his natural talents to flourish.

Through this fateful encounter, he wished to dedicate himself to scholarship. However, around the age of fourteen, Chusai was compelled to succeed to his grandfather's duties and serve at the magistrate's office. For Chusai, who had touched the teachings of the Confucian sages early on, living as a cog in the organization like a bureaucrat was no easy task.

Furthermore, the "scholarship" spoken of here is not the tedious procedure we imagine today—graduating from university or graduate school, obtaining a doctorate, and listing social statuses on a profile. True scholarship is a place where raw existence collides with existence, the moment where life is most fully expressed, a fundamental activity for a human to be human. It is a combustion of the soul, akin to the seeking of the way in religion. But as everyone knows, such opportunities are rare. Even now, there are countless university institutions in the world and countless people giving lectures, but if one asks how much "living scholarship" exists, experience tells us that finding even one instance is fortunate. And life is something that changes drastically through such a single, fateful encounter.

As he spent his days reluctantly serving at the office, the first event occurred that would completely change his life. It began when he casually investigated the genealogy of the Oshio family and discovered the fact that his ancestors were of the Imagawa clan, and even after serving the Tokugawa house, had been granted territory in Izu for their meritorious service in the early Edo period. I will not elaborate this time, but simply put, although he was born into the station of an official, he was of noble lineage, and his ancestors had once rendered distinguished service to the Tokugawa side that opened the shogunate.

Observing his current circumstances calmly, doubt was born: despite his ancestors having achieved merit and worked in a way that brought no shame to their family crest, eventually being conscripted by the Tokugawa Shogun, why was he, their blood descendant, working in such an office, facing selfish and cunning people every day? He felt strongly that his way of living was shameful to his ancestors. Yet, the era was one of rigid, formalized class systems, a peaceful time with neither battles nor opportunities to achieve merit. He cursed his circumstances—why was he born in such an era, why did his parents die so young—and to dispel this gloom, he began to practice martial arts following his scholarship. He learned gunnery of the Nakajima style and spearmanship of the Saburi style—which is still the only lineage of its kind transmitted in Japan today. Fortunately, his nature—originally short-tempered, physically large, and robust—served him well, and he became so strong that he had no equal in his vicinity. Had he been born in the Warring States period where samurai vied for supremacy, he would surely have achieved considerable military fame, but the era was unconnected to such things. The more a person of will knows history, the more often they think, "If only I had been born in that era"—and Chusai was the same.

Moreover, the era was the late Edo period, rampant with fools similar to those of the modern day who misused knowledge and thought only of their own profit at the expense of the common people. In an age where interests were entrenched everywhere and rules and norms were strictly enforced, there was nothing even Chusai could do; he could only dispel his gloom daily through scholarship and martial arts. As long as the system was maintained and their status was secure, it mattered not if the common people suffered or what happened to others. If their own profit was firmly guaranteed, what more could they desire? Thus, they would not recognize any new challenges that might threaten their interests or rights, and the mindset was that self-domestication into the system was the very method of advancement.

Since this period corresponds to Chusai’s impressionable years of eighteen or nineteen, we can directly feel the considerable distress and pent-up frustration of a young man who could do nothing. However, he did not choose the path of giving up on living and becoming a corpse while still alive, like the other officials. The next turning point visited him at the age of twenty.

At this time, he realized: Is not the fact that my own heart is wavering the true problem? In other words, he had hitherto blamed the era and others for everything and lamented his circumstances, but in society, what can a mere petty official do? Nothing. If so, does this not stem from failing to gaze at his own heart through introspection, seeking answers only from the outside? He realized that this was a way of life shameful to his ancestors, and not true living.

Here, he immerses himself in scholarship once again. According to one theory, he went to Edo (Tokyo) at this time and entered an institution teaching the Neo-Confucianism of the Hayashi family, the official scholars of the shogunate, but it is a fact that he stepped into Confucianism in earnest.

Confucianism is still too strongly tended to be misunderstood globally as a teaching that is eccentric, argumentative, bound by regulations, and rejecting of individual freedom. However, true Confucianism is entirely different. It is simply that because Confucian teachings contain room for interpretation convenient for the regime philosophy aimed at governance by the rulers of each era, cunning intellectuals misused this, calling themselves Confucians and distorting the teachings of Confucius and Mencius more and more. Furthermore, because it was drastically altered by the Neo-Confucianism of the Song Dynasty, the psychological resistance to Confucianism we see today was born. In fact, this erroneous interpretation of Confucianism remains the foundation of Japan's regime philosophy, particularly with the reinstatement of this Neo-Confucian system after the late 1990s. Robust totalitarianism, precedent-ism that denies anything new, the forcing of individuals to sacrifice for the organization and system—today, Japan embodies only the negative aspects of Confucianism, so the claim that Confucianism has problems contains a certain reality. However, original Confucianism is not such a thing. What is it for a human to live as a human? The sages of Confucianism faced this question most directly.

And the characteristic of Confucianism, as I conceive it, is not self-domestication into a system, nor the changing of external things—the "other," such as other people or systems—but possesses the principle of preaching that one must first change oneself. By causing a transformation or revolution that changes one's own heart first, one disciplines oneself thoroughly. Then, regardless of the era, regardless of the system, regardless of others, what one does remains unchanged in any age. And changing the "inner" self is overwhelmingly more difficult than changing the "outer" family, society, or state. The reason I view those currently rushing toward social or national change as comical is that they do not appear to have undergone the most severe, most difficult task for a human: self-transformation. There is no external change without self-change. To put it further, if one changes oneself through self-transformation, the appearance of the outer world changes completely.

As Chusai immersed himself in Confucianism, and because he originally possessed high practical aptitude, he learned the truths of the sages' teachings one after another. On the other hand, while Confucianism preaches individual cultivation, it places equal importance on fulfilling the duties given to oneself. Thus, Chusai, who had until then only lamented—asking what use office work was for his future, why he had to spend most of his life with people who talked only of the rice market (the equivalent of the stock market today), and why he had to perform the duty of judging captured criminals—changed his attitude. He began to challenge these tasks, grasping that fulfilling the duty fate had assigned him now was the practice of self-transformation. He resolved that this was the only path to open his life. For a young man of only his early twenties to realize this much demonstrates that true scholarship is indeed precious.

Thus, he was a figure who achieved self-awareness through self-transformation, but as we all know, the world is not a system designed to lead such self-aware living humans to happiness. Rather, historically, those who travel the path of a righteous life possess a strange destiny that invites them into a deep, lament-filled abyss. Oshio Chusai was no exception. The fate awaiting Chusai, who had attained enlightenment at a young age, was a succession of trials too cruel to behold.

First, in order to deepen his scholarship, Chusai visited private academies that taught Confucianism enthusiastically, but the era was one of extreme corruption, the spearhead of which was a dry, dead education wearing the skin of scholarship. The scholarship of the time, like that of today, was rampant with meaningless education where the master merely taught the disciple "signified things." For example, masters would transmit superficial techniques such as the rote reading or annotation of classics like Confucius and Mencius to their disciples, or give a topic and have them consult materials to match the "honor student" answer—such folly was widespread. There was no living scholarship there, no confrontation between the raw existence of master and disciple, no power to move the heart; it was merely a training institution for petty bureaucrat candidates possessing the mindset of petty officials. In short, it was meaningless mechanical education.

Here, Chusai despairs once again. After all, what Chusai sought was not to pour the time of his life into fabricating cunning wisdom to live in the formal "outside," but scholarship that approached the pressing life of internal demands. But two hundred years had already passed since the opening of the Edo shogunate; the feverish enthusiasm of the early shogunate, the heat of a new era, had vanished. Based on a fixed system of status, it was an era where titles were everything, just as today. Living humans were unnecessary there; to those plotting to maintain the system, they were merely a nuisance. At a glance, it was a peaceful society, but its contents were, like today, a situation devoid of substance and life. Here, Chusai finally fell into despair, spending his days without finding joy in anything he did. He was twenty-four years old.

However, fate possesses a mysterious power to grant an opportunity befitting the hardship to those who have once resolved to establish a strong will to live in earnest. The next turning point that saved him—he who lamented that there was no education answering his internal demands even in the great cities of Osaka, Kyoto, or Edo—also arrived in the form of a single book left by a predecessor. This encounter with a book became the turning point where he would walk a life from which he could not escape his destiny.

To be continued...